Ease
by Mesataki
Summary: Cynthia's thoughts in the aftermath of Pieta. When so much has been lost and taken from her, what does Cynthia have left to live for? She struggles to find an answer.


It would be easy.

The snow callously whipped them as they sallied forth into the blizzard. There was no rest; there was no respite in the biting cold. Their intrinsic ability to regulate their own body temperature only went so far – and after a while, she could feel the frost clinging to her legs. She tried to alleviate the white blindness by thrusting her forearm in front of her blue-hued, stiffened face.

"Are we all together?" It was Miria who called, and heads turned around to check.

Thigh-deep in snow, Cynthia looked behind her. "Yuma's lagging behind," she said. The penultimate lowest struggled to reach them, constantly tripping in no small part due to her frost-ridden legs.

"We need to hurry on to that cave," Deneve advised.

A small cloud formed with each of her breaths. "How much further is that?" Cynthia asked.

"It's not too far from Pieta, but in this visibility, we'll have to be careful not to overshoot it."

The north sky lacked the telling temporal qualities of the south; no one had a good idea of how long they had been walking or the difference between an hour and a second. It was very possible to, without a landmark to go by, simply stroll past their refuge and never have seen it. They'd have to be certain of every step they took, and if they got separated, their apparent 'deaths' would make finding each other hell. Dead warriors do not emit yoki.

Yuma stopped right behind Cynthia, panting with exertion. "I'm okay…" she assured, but the survivors knew better than to trust any of their kind when it came to reports on their ability. No one wanted to be a burden, and weakness was something of a sin among them.

They continued on in the night (or was it day?), searching for a means of salvation. Cynthia lingered for a moment – her unbraided hair tossed about in the howling wind as she casted a backwards glance towards Pieta. She couldn't see it, not in this weather, but she could still feel the despair of that place lingering. Her half-healed wounds throbbed with an ethereal pain, and suddenly, Veronica's face appeared in her mind.

An unbidden tear marred her bruised face, but before it could drip – it froze solid, joining the other crystals dusting her cheek.

It would be so easy to die.

A voice rose on the gale. "Cynthia?"

Shaken out of self-destructing thoughts, she turned to answer them. "I'm coming!" She broke into a stiff jog.

As she caught up to them, it was Yuma who adjusted her pace to match the former fourteenth. "A-are you okay?" she inquired with her cold-stuttered speech.

"I'm fine – honest." She smiled, pale lips cracking from the wind's abuse.

The former fortieth gave a small nod, disbelief present in her eyes, but it was overpowered by introverted unwillingness to probe further into someone else's business. Cynthia was glad of the other's shyness; it allowed her to keep her macabre thoughts in the dark where they belonged.

They called it survivor's guilt. She had heard the term in days long past and never understood how it could force such a horrible sensation upon anyone. But now she knew. It was luck – lady fortune – who decided who would live and die. It didn't discriminate, and she was sorry it didn't. Otherwise, the captains who worked so hard to protect and lead their subordinates would've made it out. It wouldn't be just Miria shouldering the responsibility of leadership. Perhaps everyone who had laid down their lives just yesterday would be here.

It made her sick to know the only reason why she could feel the ice freezing her limbs as she trudged towards a dim destination was the fact that she was simply lucky. She should've died along with the rest, but fate had a bitter way of handling things.

"I recognize this," Helen quipped, stopping for a moment. All eyes focused onto her. "You see that fallen tree? I remember the tip," she strode over to the prone conifer, "pointed straight at the entrance."

"Are you sure?" Clare asked.

"It stuck out to me. I'm pretty sure," she affirmed.

Miria nodded slowly. "In that case, it shouldn't be too far off then. We should pick up the pace."

The survivors eased into a brisk walk instead of the sluggish, zombie-like shuffle they had assumed upon leaving Pieta. It had seemed as if some of them had already believed in their deaths, and it didn't make sense to them to be alive. They should've been buried by the blizzard; they should've been entombed in an icy womb just like the rest of their comrades were. That was how it was supposed to be – no chances of survival. Everyone had wanted to live at the time, but now on the other side – so very much alone and without meaning – Cynthia wished she had never crawled out of the blood-stained snow. They had bested the odds, and it left her devastated.

Helen was right. The faint smell of burnt wood caught in her nostrils as they crossed through the portal separating inside and outside. The promise of a fire warmed their spirits for a fleeting moment. They settled down in the dark, finding individual niches to set down their swords. Snow was packed into the various corners, blown in from the wind.

Once they were done, Tabitha stood up. "I'll go get some firewood, captain," she said.

Miria nodded in acknowledgement, eyes closing in exhaustion. Their 'resurrection' had left them all worn despite their tireless habits.

"I'll go with you," Cynthia volunteered. She gave her comrade a weak smile. "It'll be better for us to stick together in this weather, right?"

"I suppose…" she replied.

They left with their swords in hand, and luckily, they didn't have to go far. The forest offered up many a tree as their kindling. All it took was a simple swipe of the sword and then several other surgical swings to cut down the wood to a feasible size. The two carried it back by the armful, never saying a word to each other with only the violent wind as their other companion.

It was not much later when they had a proper fire going. The flames licked the cool air as it devoured its wooden sacrifice. In the warm light, they could finally see the sorry shape they were all in. Their tattered uniforms and shredded capes spoke of the hell they've all went through. The many bruises and dried blood crusting on their faces, arms, legs – wherever blood may have flowed – spoke of the many injuries they sustained and frankly of their surprised survival.

"We look like shit," Helen commented with a hollow chuckle.

With practiced motion, Tabitha untied her hair and tried fruitlessly disentangle it from the matted grime. "If we had a proper washing basin, we could at least clean up."

"When the weather clears up, we can go back to Pieta to scavenge for some necessities." Miria carefully took a log and threw it into the fire. The flames billowed for a moment, as if pleased. "We'll need to find something intact to wear and supplies for long term survival. I will not lie," she said. "We will be in the north for a while. It's the only place where we will be safe."

Silver met silver as they briefly met each other's eyes. How long was 'a while?' For their kind, forever was a possibility, but most likely, this would last until restlessness plagued them like an itch. Having once held the leather grip of a balanced sword, it was hard to let go and forget the thrill or necessity of warfare. Slaying was the entirety of their existence. Cynthia could not imagine a life without her claymore within reach. She knew leaving it behind would in return leave her with maddening sensations of vulnerability. Perhaps that was why losing their sword was taboo – they were weak without it, and weakness was a sin.

"I recommend we all get some sleep before we worry anymore about tomorrow."

Though it sounded like a suggestion, no one was fooled. The captain's word was law.

Even so, there were just some duties and precautions that had to be taken. "I'll take the first watch," Cynthia announced.

Disappointment briefly flashed across the other survivors' faces. Keeping vigil served a redemptive purpose, however trivial it may seem. Fortunately for her, no one argued or disputed with her self-appointed duty. Everyone simply planted their sword in the ground and slept with their backs to the blade, all facing the flickering fire. Eyes closed, their breathing gradually began to take the slow rhythm of sleep.

Once she was sure of their ignorant slumber, she heaved a sigh and allowed her façade to slip from its usual optimism. Weariness darkened her face as she watched the stormy expressions of her comrades. She had no doubt that some of them were caught in a nightmare, and it was one of the reasons why she took up first watch. She wanted to delay reliving Pieta over and over again and felt shame for her cowardice. Some of them probably knew – Clare and Deneve perhaps were two of the worst off. They had close friends ripped to shreds in front of them, helpless as the enemy advanced. It was no wonder then, how the ones who appeared to have lost the most slept so much further away from the fire. It forced a physical distance between the warriors they only knew by name, hoping to discourage any relationship to grow past allies.

She didn't blame them. Friendship was a wonderful conception promising an inexhaustible resource of support and acceptance. It bound people together in an unbreakable bond, but because of the strength in the design, the same chain that held them together could as easily drag them down. Friends were like lifelines up until they died. Then they become anchors, dragging them into a sea of despair.

As a warrior of the Organization, tomorrow was never guaranteed. The friend that she made today might be the one she would have to cut down the next. No matter if it was an act of mercy or granting their wish for an eternal reprieve, the blood never really washed away. It stayed on the hands, soothingly warm at first – belief that they had done the right thing – but it cooled swiftly as ponderous thoughts filled the mind. Pain and madness were then to follow – guilt and regret hand in hand as it gnawed away at the soul and spirit. Another friend would soon be dead.

It would be so easy, then, to never experience intimate camaraderie and the unavoidable agony that came with it.

She grabbed one end of her ragged cape and carefully tore a strip off. Her hands, haggard with the temperature, began to retie her hair as it had been prior to yesterday. Her fingers were clumsy, but once it was done, she felt a little more at ease as if the simple act brought her to a time where everyone was alive. Was it bad that the mental portraits of each fallen face were never smiling? The grins that some wore were fragile things and were done to cope rather than out of any real joy.

Why did she smile so much then? If it wasn't real, why bother? She scooped up a handful of wayward snow and scrubbed her face with it. The melted water dripped to the ground, dyed with dried blood. It was an interesting question: why lie so much to herself? She felt a small tinge of her yoki seeping into her cheek. The bruise's dark smear gradually disappeared. Pretending their troubles didn't exist did nothing to drive them away, but for her, it brought temporary relief. By forcing the smile to her lips, she hoped that someday it may become real, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was only human to believe so, and that was one of the few comforts she took to escape from yesterday.

The day before still remained fresh in her mind despite the hours and relentless weather. Perhaps it would continue to fester at the forefront of her memories until the day she died – darkly tinting each thought with a stroke of regret or pain. How could she forget the overwhelming taste, smell, or feeling of iron assaulting her senses? And still, she would never forget the red snow or the look of hopelessness in eyes? or the ever-dark northern skies.

It would be so easy to dismiss everything as a nightmare. But, denial never erases the truth, so she never tried.

Was there an extant reason to remain here? To bear with the storm when oblivion sang out to her like a siren? There had to be one.

A gift. She had purportedly the greatest of them all – and however undeserving she was of it, it didn't change a thing. It would do Veronica's memory best to cherish the present; it was all she had left along with a tempered desire to take vengeance upon those who had thrust twenty-four women into tragedy. She had to make this her reason for being, else without a goal in mind, the inward chaos would never cease in its entropy. It wouldn't stop her slow unraveling.

It would be so easy to succumb to the inevitability, but when it all came down to it, easy was not always right.

Difficulty had its own merits.

* * *

><p>[AN]: IDK what was I doing. Like other things I've penned up, I can't help but think I rushed the ending and/or accomplished nothing at all. Still – fun to write. I haven't written anything new for a few months, and it's a nice first step into the Claymore fandom if it amounts to anything at all.


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